<!DOCTYPE html>
<html>
<head>
<meta charset="UTF-8">
<title>Death and the Cowboy by Kgdragoon</title>
<style type="text/css">

body { background-color: #ffffff; }
.CI {
text-align:center;
margin-top:0px;
margin-bottom:0px;
padding:0px;
}
.center   {text-align: center;}
.cover    {text-align: center;}
.full     {width: 100%; }
.quarter  {width: 25%; }
.smcap    {font-variant: small-caps;}
.u        {text-decoration: underline;}
.bold     {font-weight: bold;}
</style>
</head>
<body>
<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/29486055">Death and the Cowboy</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kgdragoon/pseuds/Kgdragoon'>Kgdragoon</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Definitely NOT a Spaghetti Western [2]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Overwatch (Video Game)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Amputation, Angst, Bounty Hunter Jesse McCree, Gen, Gratuitous Southwest, Hallucinations (?), Headcanon, Hurt No Comfort, Jesse Loses an Arm, Language, Mild Gore, Near Death Experiences, Post-Blackwatch, Pre-Overwatch Recall, Religion and Spirituality, Santa Muerte, Supernatural Elements, Trauma, Violence</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2021-02-17</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-02-22</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-15 23:28:59</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Graphic Depictions Of Violence</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>4</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>4,120</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/29486055</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kgdragoon/pseuds/Kgdragoon</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>After Jesse left Blackwatch he decided to try to do a bit of good in the world... unfortunately his very first bounty promptly goes right to hell.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Definitely NOT a Spaghetti Western [2]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/2165751</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>7</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. El Corrido</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><ul class="associations">


        <li>
            Inspired by

            <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/22020769">prince with a thousand enemies</a> by <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/AmaranthBlue/pseuds/AmaranthBlue">AmaranthBlue</a>.
        </li>
        <li>
            Inspired by

            <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/28741227">Out of Aces</a> by <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/BloodFromTheThorn/pseuds/BloodFromTheThorn">BloodFromTheThorn</a>.
        </li>

    </ul><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>The title is inspired by the song "Death and the Lady" (the versions done by Old Leatherstocking and Norma Waterson are my faves).</p><p>Also... this was sort of inspired by: “prince with a thousand enemies”, in that it plausibly filled in enough background that I could stop worrying about gaping holes in canon and get to writing; I figured I'd include it here anyway, because it's a good recommendation. Much of the inspiration for this came from researching Santa Muerte, which is rather fascinating.</p><p>Side note - this is written in a slightly different style than the first, mostly just toned down for ease of reading (and writing!). The stories also aren't in chronological order: this was just my headcanon for how he lost his arm... it'll probably be explained in future Overwatch games at which point this'll just be another AU *sigh*.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>There is a time, after Blackwatch, when Jesse is just plain <i>lost</i>. He doesn’t know what to do with his life. He wishes he could go back. But the thing is, there ain’t really anything to go back to, not anymore. Blackwatch is filled with unfamiliar faces, now, ones he just can’t bring himself to trust. Liao died, and Jesse blames himself. Ana’d gone and died too, and without her, Jack and Gabe were at each other’s throats so much he reckons they might actually come to blows. </p>
<p>They’d both changed so damn much from the men he knew. He remembers when Jack genuinely cared about people, even people like him; when he’d fought tooth and nail to protect everyone under his command, even against his big-shot bosses in the UN. Then that caring had soured right into anger and capitulation. And Fucking. Gabriel. Reyes. Jesse doesn’t know what'd gotten into him, but he just hadn't been the same. What he used to call pragmatism and a ruthless kind of efficiency had taken a turn into some nasty paranoia and plain ol’ bloodthirst. By the time he'd left, Jesse couldn't recognize either of them.</p>
<p>Folk used to look up to Overwatch, it used to be a place of heroes. Now… Overwatch just ain’t what it used to be. And Jesse McCree does not. know. <i>why</i>.</p>
<p>So, he wanders. Goes to all the places he wanted to see, but never did… at least, not properly. He refuses to count seeing Washington, D.C. at night, on a mission, that one time. But it turns out that sightseeing gets fantastically boring awful fast, and it ain’t cheap neither, so then he turns to bounty hunting. He figures it’s close enough to what he did before, and he’ll be able to put his skills to good use for a change.</p>
<p>He has this idea, in his head, of what it’ll be like – a lone gunman with his quick draw and quicker wits, bringing outlaws to justice just like in the movies. He’s former special ops. even, and so better trained than just about anyone he could think to go after. He ain’t lamebrained enough to think it’ll be that easy, but it should well be doable. He just doesn’t account for old grudges, or poor information, or plain old rotten luck. And his very first bounty ends with him caught in the middle of a gang war, complete with hostages, and a warehouse stuck in the middle of the desert, filled to the brim with a dubious sort of merchandise. </p>
<p><i>It’s a powder-keg, is what it is.</i> He grumbles, shooting the last two bullets in his cylinder before ducking back into cover behind a large wooden crate to reload.</p>
<p>A spray of bullets from a real old fashioned tommy gun hit a crate just 10 feet to his right. He winces as hand grenades come rolling out, covering the floor in deadly 20th century explosives. He really hopes they’re duds, but given the fact someone’s using an actual, honest to god tommy gun, he ain’t holding out much hope. </p>
<p>Just what in the hell did he get himself into?</p>
<p>He empties another cylinder of bullets in the direction of the firefight, casts another look at the sketchy crate filled with World War 2 grenades, and then decides to find different cover, just in case. He burns Deadeye bright and tries to even the odds between the two factions – looks like the black suits have the upper-hand against the ones wearing bright neon colors – hopefully this’ll keep them occupied with each other for a mite longer. Four shots spit from Peacekeeper faster than thought. What follows is a study of furtive glances, crouching, and awkward sprinting.</p>
<p>A moment later and he is safely behind a large metal box, and it already feels a whole lot better than the wooden junk he’d had before. Unfortunately, it also happens to be occupied.</p>
<p>“No, no, no… please don’t shoot me!” a man sobs, raising his shackled hands above his head in what is clearly supposed to be surrender.</p>
<p>“Now… now look, I ain’t gonna shoot you,” Jesse says, trying to find a balance between soft reassurance and shouting to be heard over gunfire… it definitely leans more towards shouting. “I’m one o’ the good guys!” he shouts. “I’m here to rescue you!”</p>
<p>“No, no! I don’t believe you, you’re with them, I know it!” the man screams, and then bolts.</p>
<p>Jesse reacts before he can properly think things through: his arm snakes out, quick as a viper, and snatches the man’s wrist. Of course he fights back, pulling and twisting as far as the rusty metal handcuffs will allow. <i>This man is gonna get himself shot</i>, Jesse thinks, renewing his efforts to pull the man back into cover. But the man kicks out and manages to hit Jesse squarely on the jaw. </p>
<p>For a brief moment, stunned, Jesse lets go.</p>
<p>The man stumbles, then runs. Jesse reaches out to stop him. Then the whole world goes up in white light and earth shattering noise.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. La Capitulación</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Jesse wakes up, realizes he is in deep trouble, mopes a bit, and then makes a choice.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Jesse wakes up to screaming pain and a world on fire. The world throbs in and out of darkness, and it takes him a moment to realize that most of the screaming is his. He tries to roll over, to make some token effort to get up and assess the damage. He doesn’t get a chance to - the slightest movement brings white hot agony that he feels down to his very bones, grinding and searing trails of fire.</p>
<p>“Señor…? Señor!” a voice calls from somewhere above him, echo-y and distant through the thick wool that has made its home inside his head, it sounds young, though.</p>
<p>“Por favor, no mueras! Voy a buscar ayuda!” the youngish voice says, high and panicked and already starting to fade.</p>
<p>And then Jesse... forgets.</p>
<p></p><div class="center">
  <p>*</p>
</div><p>The next time Jesse wakes, for better or for worse, he is much more aware. He chokes and gags and gasps, his right arm grasping at his chest like it can protect him from the pain. The entire left side of his body feels like it's on fire, but his arm is definitely the worst of it, it hurts so bad he's almost afraid to look. Judging from the smoldering wreckage around him… well, it doesn’t take a genius to figure out there’d been an explosion, and he’d seen the aftermath of enough of those to hazard a guess at what he looked like. Still, he knows he has to do it - he's in what some would call “hostile territory”, with a high chance of anyone who stumbles over him deciding to put a bullet in his skull, so he can’t just wait for someone to come save him. He isn't even sure there will be anyone coming – the warehouse is in the middle of the desert, an entire day’s walk from the nearest city, and who’d be out in the badlands anyway?</p>
<p>His chances of getting out of this definitely aren't great.</p>
<p></p><div class="center">
  <p>*</p>
</div><p>He tries to get up again. Fails.
<br/>His head goes white with static. And then he drifts...</p>
<p>... He muses about where he’d be if he was still with Blackwatch. What he’d be doing. If it was worth it. If he’d even done a lick of good like Reyes had promised him he would. And that’s the kicker – a couple years ago he would have said yes, without a doubt, but those last few months threw everything into question. Especially, and most importantly, whether or not Reyes was a good man. Everything seems to hinge on that one point, because if he wasn’t, then everything Jesse did in Blackwatch comes into question.</p>
<p>Jesse remembers being a young punk coming face to face with the law – his hands in cuffs and a grim specter hanging over his future. He remembers meeting Reyes for the first time, bloody, but still too stubborn to go down without a fight. He remembers those honey words, drawing him in, offering him a chance at a better life, right when it seemed like everything else was gone.</p>
<p>He feels a bit like a fly, trapped in a giant web he can’t fully make out the pattern to.</p>
<p>But it ain’t like that now. Now Jesse’s the maker of his own web. Now he’s the one calling the shots. For the very first time in his life, Jesse has a chance to make sure he’s doing right by others. He is most certainly not going to waste it by dying here.</p>
<p>Jesse grits his teeth and prepares for a fight – against his own body, against anyone who decides it would be a good time to try and kill him, against the very desert itself. With a monumental effort he manages to roll over onto his good arm, then slowly lever himself to his knees. Breathing hard and ragged, like he’d run a marathon instead of done something every one year old can do. He makes the mistake of looking down at his left arm and promptly turns and loses his entire lunch.</p>
<p>There ain’t… there ain’t much left of it, below the elbow. He… doesn’t know how to feel about that. He needs both of his arms… he can’t just… lose one… He suddenly finds it a whole lot harder to breathe, and he can feel his guts twisting in a new kind of panic. He breathes, tries to, slow and steady, just like they taught him. Just breathe. Panicking won’t solve anything. He just has to calm down and think this through.</p>
<p>His breath shudders out of him. And he wishes that Gabriel Reyes was there with him. He’d help him, no matter what kind of person Reyes was turning into, surely he’d help him. Even if Jesse was a fuckup, Reyes’d still come back for him. That’s when Jesse finally remembers his phone. And he really must’ve been out of it if he didn’t even remember that he could call for help.</p>
<p>He maneuvers his right arm carefully behind his body, trying desperately not to jostle his bad arm, or the pieces of shrapnel that seem to have embedded themselves in his side and down along his left leg. He slips his hand into his back, left pocket, and pulls out the smashed remains of his cellphone. Damn. He still tries it anyway… and really isn’t surprised when it doesn’t so much as flicker or make any kind of attempt at turning on. Double damn.</p>
<p>He stares at the cracked plastic for a few moments, all the hope and fear leeching out of him and leaving him cold, resigned. Around him, the warehouse continues to smolder and burn, an entire wall seemingly gone. Bodies lying mixed with rubble, and bits and pieces lying even among that. Outside, the sun is still new in the sky, and the air is still fresh from the cool desert night. </p>
<p>Jesse doesn’t think he’ll be able to make it back into town, but he sure as hell is going to try.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Just a note about chapter titles.<br/>The Mexican "Corrido" is a type of ballad/poem/song that tells a story; often commemorating historical events (or more recently, drug traffickers). And, as one website puts it "the most popular corrido theme has been heroic narratives, often commemorating the death of the protagonist." (reference: https://www.oxfordbibliographies.com/view/document/obo-9780199913701/obo-9780199913701-0077.xml)... or for a literal translation: "correr" means "to run", and so "el corrido" means "the run". "La capitulación" literally just means "the capitulation". </p>
<p>I felt like there was a certain kind of irony (or maybe poetry) to both titles... like, if you take them at face value they don't match the chapters, but if you look at them slightly askew they add context... Like, the first chapter title is how Jesse sees himself (as a 'hero' that songs will be written about); and the second reminded me of the part in a traditional hero's journey where the hero has to accept their fate and go off on their quest, which will somehow change them. I don't know, if anyone was wondering what the titles mean (or alternatively, why they don't make sense), that's my best explanation for it.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. El Moribundo</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Jesse walks through the desert and probably gets heat stroke.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>He ends up making a sling from his jacket. There is nothing else he can do for the arm, or any of his other injuries, not really. No disinfectant, nothing remotely clean, fire too low to even make an attempt at cauterizing anything… not that he’d want to attempt that anyway. If there’s something else he can do, anything at all to help with his injuries, his brain is too muddled from pain and exhaustion to think of it. So he settles for the sling and tries not to make anything worse.</p><p>Then, he gets to walking. Or, limping, really, since his left leg hurts at every step and can’t take his full weight. He carefully makes his way through the warehouse until he reaches the exit where he knows there’d been a few jeeps, bikes, and trucks just yesterday… of course most of them were gone, taken by anyone who’d survived the explosion and been smart enough to get out of town. Even at a glance he can tell that the rest had been sabotaged: the tires slashed until the chassis sunk low towards the ground; the remaining motorcycles collapsed on their sides – quick and easy, but effective. He hadn’t really expected anything different, but he sure had been <i>hoping</i>.</p><p>With a resigned sort of sigh he steps into the open desert, headed towards the nearest city.</p>
<p></p><div class="center">
  <p>*</p>
</div><p>The thing is, Jesse hadn’t been this alone since his mamma’d died, and that had been fairly short and mostly unbearable. He actively tries not to think about the two years between nearly-13 and just-about-15 he’d spent before he’d met Ashe. He doesn’t even like thinking about all the years before, growing up on a farm with only his mother and the occasional hired hand for company. They weren’t bad, the opposite actually, but that was the trouble – they were the long, soft years before everything went wrong. It was easier to lock up those memories for safekeeping somewhere deep inside his brain and pretend that Jesse McCree had never known things like kindness and love that didn’t come with strings attached. But here, now, in the very same desert he’d been born in, it is mighty hard to keep on forgetting.</p><p>As the sun starts heating up the air in earnest, beating down so hot that wavy mirages form off in the middle distance, Jesse’s mind can’t help but meander back to that time he was eleven and determined to help with the pecan trees. He’d caught a heat stroke and collapsed in a dead faint, scared his mom half to death, and had to be carried inside. He remembers waking up to a roof over his head and a struggling air conditioner in the corner, barely keeping the air lukewarm; his mother pressing a cool towel to his head and handing him a glass of nice, cold water.</p><p>And, like remembering an impossibly good dream, the longing returns like new and he misses her all over again. It’s almost funny – everything hurt so much he’d thought that he couldn’t possibly hurt any more. He was wrong.</p>
<p></p><div class="center">
  <p>*</p>
</div><p>Finally, somewhere in-between the scraggly creosote bushes and the spindly yucca, his legs give out. He collapses face-first into the dirt, beyond pain, maybe even beyond feeling. Unable to move a single step further. His thoughts spiral out like a galaxy, unraveling into space. And, well, at least he can honestly say he tried. </p>
<p></p><div class="center">
  <p>*</p>
</div><p>When he wakes the air is cool and dark, and the sky above him shines with the light of countless stars. Far brighter than you’d be able to see in the city. He hadn’t even realized he missed this, but it sure is nice to have it back, particularly if it’s the last thing he ever gets to see. Laying on his side like this, it isn’t half bad. His whole body feels a bit numb and he can almost forget about the whole ‘dying’ thing… He could still go for a tall glass of water though.</p><p>The short, chuffing hoots of burrowing owls bring him out of his reverie and he turns his head get a look at them… no, probably too far away… he stills when he sees the pale figure standing under a lone mesquite tree. A skeleton clothed in white, thick black hair just visible from underneath a long white scarf lined in golden thread, and a thick red ribbon tied around her waist like a belt. There’s a long scythe in one hand and in her other… rosary beads? Yes, blue and green rosary beads clicking through her skeletal fingers, as though in prayer. It’s impossible, unthinkable, and yet, there is only one being she can be.</p><p>“Santa Muerte,” Jesse whispers, memories of altars and offerings and secret prayers rushing through his mind. There’d been a time, when he was with Deadlock and deep in the world of smugglers, thieves, and thugs, that’d he’d been sure no God would want to touch him, would care enough to answer an irredeemable man’s prayers… except Saint Death. She answered everyone’s prayers, after all; didn’t discriminate or seem to care overmuch about just <b>whose</b> prayers she was answering. It was just old superstitions, he’d thought, but he’d never quite managed to stop praying.</p><p>Santa Muerte just stood there, thumbing through her world shaped beads, looking in his direction.</p><p>“Por favor…” Jesse tries, but he can’t think of what to say, and words feel so long unused on his tongue that he isn’t even sure of them anymore. He settles for, “… Salvame.”</p><p>She gives no acknowledgment, no hint that his plea would be answered. But the beads stop a moment later and her head tilts, just so. And then she turns and walks away.</p><p>“Please…!” Jesse calls after her. “Please, let don’t let me die here! I ain’t done yet!” </p><p>Between one breath and the next, she disappears from view.</p><p>“I’ve still got so much I gotta do,” Jesse whispers into the dirt.</p>
<p></p><div class="center">
  <p>*</p>
</div><p>Jesse startles awake to the sound of footsteps. The sun burning bright above him and his skin itching from sunburn and the dry desert heat. For a moment he wonders if Our Lady of the Holy Death has returned for him. The next moment he wonders if it had all been a dream. How long had he been out here anyway?</p><p>“Hmm… what have we here?” says a woman, her voice deep and smooth and most certainly not La Santa Muerte.</p><p>The edges of a long black dress come into view, brushing streaks across the crumbling, gritty ground. Her feet kick up clouds of dirt with every deliberate step. Jesse tries to lever himself up to get a better look at the woman, but the strength for even that is beyond him. She solves his problem for him: grabs him by his shoulder and non-too-gently turns him over until he ends up staring right up into her large black eyes. She blinks, once, twice, as though surprised to find he’s still alive. </p><p>Her skin is a dark, almond-y kind of color, but seems to have taken on an unhealthy sort of pallor recently, which only emphasizes the dismal looking bags under her eyes and the brittleness of her stringy black hair. The black dress, the black shawl draped over her head, the crucifix hanging at her collarbone, her general state of unwellness – everything about her seems to paint a picture of grief.</p><p>“What are you doing here, vaquero? Don’t you know that men only come into this desert to die?” she asks.</p><p>Jesse stares at her blankly, because no, he did not know that and is actually pretty sure that ain't true. He tries to tell her as much, but only ends up coughing dryly around his thick, gummy tongue.</p><p>She sighs. “I probably should have given you water first.” She reaches back into the large purse on her shoulder, brings out a water bottle, and then (embarrassingly) help him drink from it, sip by slow, agonizing sip. </p><p>“Now will you answer my question? Vaquero, did you come out here to die?”</p><p>“N-no,” Jesse croaks, everything inside him still coarse and uneven.  He tries to wet his lips but only spreads grit. “Opposite really. Came out here to live.”</p><p>The woman tilts her head to the side, perplexed or studying him, Jesse isn’t quite sure.</p><p>“Did you, then? Did you live?”</p><p>“… Not really,” Jesse admits. “Always somethin’ or another gettin’ in the way, you know how it goes,” he says, trying to find some semblance of the old, roguish charm that always seemed to work on the ladies (and occasionally the fellows). </p><p>The woman, however, does not seemed to be affected; nor does she seem to know ‘how it goes’, judging by the look on her face. It makes Jesse want to elaborate, and that isn’t an impulse he’s had for some time.</p><p>“I’ve done plenty of surviving, you see… gone wherever I had to, done whatever I had to, but… I’ve never done anything and <b>meant</b> it, you know, with every fiber of my being? And I don’t really reckon that’s living.” </p><p>He sighs, wondering why he’s telling this strange woman anything, and hoping this isn’t some kind of death bed confession. But the clouded look clears from her face and her head goes back to vertical, so he supposes that he’d gotten his meaning across plainly enough for her to understand it.</p><p>“Hmm… yes, I see what you mean,” she says, and that was pity in her voice, which surely would’ve made Jesse bristle had it been on any other day of his goddamn life – today he’s too tired to care.</p><p>“I’ll go get help. Try not to die before then,” she says, stepping back, then she pauses and her head cocks to the side, as though listening. She pulls an old red poncho out of her purse and then drapes it on top of him. “Keep it, it’ll help with the sun,” she says with an air of finality, and then leaves.</p><p>And Jesse is alone again.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Changed the title so that it matched the format of the other chapters.<br/>"El Moribundo" means "the dying man".</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. El Vaquero</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Jesse's lost more than Blackwatch, and swagger can only cover hurt and uncertainty for so long, but after confusion comes resolve.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>A warning for potential medical squick... it's fast, but still kinda squicky.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Jesse is gettin’ <b>real</b> tired of being unconscious, but if anything, he’s gettin’ even more tired of wakin’ up. </p><p>It ain’t no surprise when hands grab him outta nowhere, he wakes up swinging. Considering he’s currently in the business of dying of dehydration, it isn’t exactly effective, and it only takes a moment to pin him down. Whoever’s holding him seems to be trying to tell him something, but all he hears is garbled and unfamiliar nonsense. He keeps on trying to throw them off him, right up till the sharp prick in his arm, and then he has to fight tooth and nail to stay conscious. Needless to say, it doesn’t work.</p><p>Jesse is gettin’ real, <b>real</b> tired of being unconscious…</p>
<p></p><div class="center">
  <p>*</p>
</div><p><br/>
He drifts between moments of time… </p><p>Water dripping into his mouth.</p><p>Burning heat becomes blistering cold.</p><p>Terrible pressure on his bad arm, and a whole lotta screaming.</p><p>And then, blissfully, silence…</p>
<p></p><div class="center">
  <p>*</p>
</div><p>The air is cold and dry, and smells musky with disinfectants. The silence is broken by a steady, incredibly <b>loud</b>, beeping. And the blankets lying on top of him are just the right amount of scratchy and cheap to scream ‘hospital bed’, and not a particularly nice hospital either, if the large cracks in the ceiling are anything to go by.</p><p>He isn’t confused, exactly, more like unsure. Memories bleed together like dye and for a moment he ain’t sure what happened when, or if it even happened at all. He tries to focus through the haze of heavy medicine; casts his mind back, expecting to find memories of a mission gone to hell so hard that he’d ended up in a crappy local hospital instead of an Overwatch facility.</p><p>… There was something about gangs?</p><p>He tries to rub his forehead, an unthinking gesture to be sure, and finds that he isn’t quite drugged enough to miss the fact that an entire arm is just <b>gone</b> below the elbow. And that’s when the panic sets in. His heart monitor picks up an unhealthy tempo and his breathing ain’t quite as even as it should be as he feels around with his good arm, as though his missing arm’s just lying around waiting for him to find it. But no, his arm is still <b>gone</b>, and all he finds are bandages and stump. His stomach promptly falls through his feet, and he realizes what else is missing…</p><p>“Reyes…?” Jesse calls out. No, He wouldn’t have left a member of his team alone, vulnerable, in some random hospital. “Reyes?!”</p><p>Reyes wouldn't have just left him… </p><p>It hits him then. Reyes hadn’t been the one to leave. The memories of the past few weeks, and months, and years come running back to him, falling neatly into their proper place in time, like knives embedded into flesh. Each one hurts more than the last.</p><p>Jesse’d left, and now he’s well and truly on his own… </p><p>He has to pause a moment, and just take that in. When he does, he finds that, no, it's more than that... Jesse had left, and met Death, and come out the other side. And maybe, just maybe, that means something. Maybe it even means he can manage this whole ‘lone cowboy’ shtick. Sure, it won’t be easy, in fact, it’d probably be a fair bit harder than he’d imagined - as evidenced by the recent clusterfuck - but he’d just started getting his own two feet under him, all by his lonesome for the very first time, like hell was he going to go crawling back now.</p><p>Sure, it ain't perfect. Hell it ain’t even nice. But he can live with that.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>So... when Torbjörn meets Jesse in Overwatch, after the time-skip, he's surprised that he's lost an arm, which I took to mean that Jesse'd lost his arm after he left Blackwatch. I figured that after Jesse left, he'd probably be fairly uncertain of... everything, but would probably try to cover it up with bravado and would get in trouble because of it. The idea for a story came to mind which centered on Jesse getting in trouble, getting seriously hurt and needing the support of his friends more than ever, but managing to survive on his own and eventually learning to let go, and move on.</p><p>Anyway, it's like 2 in the morning. I don't know why I'm always inspired to write in the dead of night. But hopefully this is somewhat coherent :/</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
</body>
</html>